Yesterday, I took the bus to Southcenter and did not get stabbed; I wanted to get some present-shopping done before Thanksgiving because, frankly, if buying gifts for the people I love convinces them to hang around for another year, then gifts they shall have. Also, I really, really, really wanted to see Precious.

On my way through the mall, I got stopped by a fabulous man who cried out “I LOVE YOUR HAIRS!”. I knew immediately that we were going to engage in a time-honored practice: he was going to tell me beautiful lies, and I was going to give him money. I sat in a chair, and he began to style my hair, telling me he ‘love the natural colors’ and that I shouldn’t change it (HA! HA HA HA!) and that when my hair is curly, it makes me look ‘all the time innocent’ and that when I left the mall, I would have no less than six new boyfriends. He gave me a hug, I gave him money, and I probably would’ve thrown in an extra twenty if he’d thought to comment on all the lovely qualities of my diminutive yet sassy rear end, or the firmness of my single chin or how my boobs were absolutely so perky they defied nature. That level of contracted lying would probably run me another fifty, though.

Armed with my new hairs, I went up to the movie theater, bought my ticket, and proceeded to be punched in the gut six or seven times by Precious. Which isn’t to say it isn’t a very good, worthwhile film; it just hurts to watch it. I think everyone in the theater cried. Theater employees came in to watch us cry. The stranger sitting next to me reached into her purse to get a tissue and passed one down to me when she caught me wiping my cheeks with my sleeve. And maybe we weren’t all even crying for the same reasons, but for even a brief moment, it felt like a profound connection between hundreds of strangers, a shared powerful experience. It’s rare for me to see a film in a theater by myself; maybe it shouldn’t be.